Athlete v. Attorney

At some point the rain stops. There's a period of high winds from the north. Then snow. Then more snow. Then a bit less snow. Then heavy snow. Then a snow that's neither heavy nor light. Then snow and rain. And then snow again, sans wind. (Which is, nine out of ten landscape painters agree, the most picturesque kind of snow.)

The Athlete runs in place during this entire meteorological drama. A testament to her stamina. Also, her Down syndrome.

At some she wearies, stops, and falls into deep contemplation.

When combining the picturesque falling snow sans wind, the blanketed corpses in the middle distance, and the overwhelming serenity on the face of the Athlete, this scene constitutes the penultimate wet-dream of the hypothetical love-child of Winslow Homer and Francis Bacon and Diane Arbus, who appears later in this series as the Switchboard Operator.

The Attorney arrives. He carries a tan leather briefcase.

I think I've found a loophole in the unspoken rules, he says, sweeping aside the guns, laying his briefcase on the rosewood table.

This breaks the Athlete's meditation.

Great job, she says.

The Attorney explains.

Great, she says.

So that's basically all we need to do.

I think that should do the trick, she says.

The Attorney is bearded and serious, in suit and tie. He opens his suitcase and pulls out some legal documents.

I'd like you to sign here and here and initial here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here. And the date here. And we're done. Thank you.

You're welcome, she says.

Now you can take the field. I'll stand here behind the tree, with my pistol aimed at your face.

I have to warn you, she says, I'm a very good shot with this!

I take that warning under advisement, thank you, he says.

She takes the field and he hides 5/6th of his body behind the trunk of the oak, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Astrophysicist v. Athlete

The Astrophysicist tools his wheelchair under the oak. Heavy drops make loud thumps on his black umbrella. He holds there a second. He looks south toward the creek.

Fuck it, he says, throwing his umbrella aside. I'm ending it all.

He jams the joystick forward.

The wheelchair jostles over the roots, then violently over the uneven turf, whizzing at top speed. (10mph.) Aimed headlong toward the slight decline before the stones.

The Athlete watches from beneath one of the poplars that line the road. She sees the Astrophysicist - a curious little silhouette - pop and rumble onward across the horizon. She watches as, without much ceremony, the chair lunges forward, out of sight, into the creek.

The Athlete immediately jumps to action. She bolts from the poplar and runs across the field. Soon she stands over the wreckage.

The Astrophysicist lies with his leg pinned under the overturned carriage. He raises his head, eyes lolling, from over a flat stone. The Athlete rushes down, lifts the wheelchair, pushes his leg free and helps raise him to his feet.

Shockingly, she finds he can stand without help. He looks at her, blinking, eyes just now taking focus.

Who are you? he asks.

She introduces herself. I can't believe this. You can walk. It's a miracle. Look!

The Astrophysicist takes a few tentative steps along the tiny bank. He looks back for her approval. She claps her hands enthusiastically. He smiles brightly. Hah! he says. I say!

They make their way to the oak. There, she discovers that his memory's been blanked.

Nothing? she asks.

Absolute zilch, he says.

She strokes his head. Poor thing, she says.

Yes, well, he says, blushing, right-o and all that, what?

He clears his throat.

But here I am fairly blathering on the subject of - well, that's to say, myself, when all efforts should be dedicated to the expression of charitable feelings toward the long-locked savior before me!

Who?

Well - you.

Oh.

Yes. Thoroughly capital salvage. Not unlike Circe's brace-up of old what's-his-name.... Nautical personage, in any event.

Thank you, she says.

Now what is it we've assembled for again?

The Athlete explains.

By Jove, I'm in the soup again.

The Athlete says they should start picking out pistols.

You wouldn't rather settle this over a hot-blooded game of droughts, would you?

She offers him a gun. He takes it, and she takes the second. They walk out to the field.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.